


maybe the memories still linger, maybe they always will

by coveredinsun



Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Abuse, Gen, Past Abuse, Winged Alexis | Quackity, and i do not care to make him sympathetic in the SLIGHTEST. fuck that guy, because hell yeah!!!!!!, but also like, c!schlatt is the worst man on the planet. i fucking hate him, guys plssss read the tags here pls, protective quackity is a headcanon that can be so personal, this is a quackity-centric fic more than anything, we need more of those in society
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-07
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-16 08:14:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29697633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coveredinsun/pseuds/coveredinsun
Summary: “That’s not what I care about!” Tubbo snapped, putting his head down to wipe away the single tear that found freedom. “They didn’t bring Wilbur back, they brought back Schlatt instead!”The world didn’t stop spinning, as much as one would expect it to. Time didn’t freeze, gravity didn’t glitch, the sun didn’t explode in some beautiful, grand supernova– there were only trees gently swaying, tallgrass dancing, in the soft breeze. The night didn’t care to bend to that shattering truth; it remained tranquil, like nothing ever happened.
Relationships: Alexis | Quackity & Jschlatt, Alexis| Quackity & Toby Smith | Tubbo, Jschlatt & Toby Smith | Tubbo, also karlnapity too but its not the focus
Comments: 8
Kudos: 81





	maybe the memories still linger, maybe they always will

**Author's Note:**

> trigger warning for past (and also a little bit of present, but mostly past) abuse. pls do not read this if it will trigger u
> 
> also this is about their CHARACTERS and pretty much only whats canon. im not trying to glorify abuse at all. this is just my take on what’s canon. this is your warning

Tommy never thought he’d see the day when the comforting hand on his shoulder would somehow belong to _Eret,_ of all people. “Are you sure you want to do this?” 

Pensively, Tommy stared at the blue makeshift altar. Whatever emotion it was supposed to evoke, it didn’t work. It didn’t feel genuine– it didn’t feel like _Wilbur–_

But it would have to suffice. “I think so.”

Eret nodded and turned their head. “And you, Fundy– are _you_ sure about this?”

Fundy hesitated a moment, a long moment, and the beat of silence rang louder than the words he spoke just after. “Yes, I am.” 

“Okay. You know what to do, Phil.” A nod.

Fundy watched as Phil stepped up to the altar; as ~~his grandfather~~ pulled out a totem of undying and sliced through it like an undeserving melon, watched its gold, glowing powder spill from it like sand. Phil looked at it with total indifference, spoke words that his disowned grandson did not process nor care about, spread that powder upon the altar, and uttered some more words. 

Nearby he could spot Tommy tighten his fists in anticipation; though all he could do himself was shove his hands into his pockets. 

Four fools stood there, expecting a show, a twisted laugh of a conductor never truly finished with the abomination he called a _symphony._

As the gold dust disappeared into the ground, taken in and considered by the earth and likely the universe itself, the fools braced themselves for the worst; glares like swords through the chest and words dark like a ravine lit by a single lantern. 

But they got nothing. 

Nothing fucking happened. 

* * *

“Those wings. Surely, you wouldn’t use them to...” Schlatt’s yellow eyes had practically grabbed him from afar, held him in a choke hold that would surely leave a bruise, “... _Fly away,_ would you, Songbird?” 

“I would never,” Quackity had muttered in response. “I mean– I’ve never been able to. I couldn’t, even if I wanted to.” 

Schlatt only scoffed, returning his gaze to the papers he was pretending to read, “Well, what are they there for, then? Just to be ugly?” 

“Well, they’re connected to my spine, I’d… I’d die without them.” 

Quackity wouldn’t dare tear his eyes away from the man in front of him. Trembling wings remained folded against his back, even as the man got up from his desk– leaning on it to keep balance– and stalked towards him.

He snatched his target’s shaking wrists when he reached him, ever-so-loudly mumbling, “Can’t have that. I love you too much for you to die, you know that?” 

A quick nod didn’t appear to satisfy Schlatt. “I said, _I love you._ You’re not going fucking deaf, are you?” 

“No, I’m not.” There was a beat of hesitation, a moment when Quackity didn’t focus on the new squeeze on his wrists, instead allowing his eyes to travel along the horns atop the perpetual drunkard’s head. “I… love you too.” 

“Good.” There it was again, that wicked smile, one of crooked teeth and the stench of whiskey. “Now go. And do something with those ugly yellow fuckers. I don’t want to see them, ‘kay?”

It’s a very real possibility Schlatt didn’t notice the way Quackity’s wings shook as he stepped out of the president’s office– not like he would have cared, anyway– but Karl undoubtedly did. 

Seeing the man with his wings folded in shame was a sight to see, truly. Even if he didn’t possess wings big or strong enough to soar through the sky like Phil or Wilbur, he still wore them proudly. 

Something was wrong, _clearly,_ and who would Karl be if he didn’t do what he could to fix it? 

“Hey, man,” Karl had to jog a little to catch up with Quackity, who’d been uncharacteristically speedwalking in the other direction as him, “You… okay?” 

The pale yellow wings somehow stiffened even more, and he turned as if he knew he’d done it subconsciously. “Yeah, I’m okay. But…” Quackity’s gaze flickered to the floor and then back up. “…Nevermind. Uh, I have to go home now, Schlatt said I could take the rest of the day off, so… I’ll see you tomorrow?” 

Strange. “Yeah. Definitely. See you tomorrow.” 

Karl wasn’t exactly sure what to expect when _tomorrow_ rolled around, but it certainly wasn’t Quackity’s wings being _gone._

(His only assurance was that they weren’t actually _gone,_ he’d been informed, just taped against his back, hidden under the suit.)

“But why?” Karl asked for, what, the third time? 

“Schlatt wanted them gone.” That was the answer every single fucking time. It didn’t do anything to calm the anger that was certainly rising in Karl’s chest.

“You did this because of Schlatt? Q, you _know_ how dangerous this is, why would you listen to what that f– why would you do what he says?” 

They’d seen what happened when Wilbur hid his wings away during the war– a stupid decision, given how useful they were in battle– they’d seen how he’d move about painfully, seen the dark brown feathers that had began to fall just after a week of not allowing them freedom. They were much harder to tame than Quackity’s, but he had learned his lesson anyway. 

After witnessing that, Quackity had said he’d never hide his wings.

“Because it would make him happy, and,” the man exhaled, something too close to a sigh of exasperation to be any comfort, “I just want to make him happy. It’s what’s best.”

 _(For me,_ he almost said; **_safest_ ** _for me._ But those words died on his tongue.) 

That was the nail in the coffin for Karl. There was no way Schlatt wasn’t aware of the danger this posed– yeah, fuck that guy, he definitely knew. Benefit of the doubt wasn’t something he deserved. 

And yet, Karl didn’t say anything– whether it was due to a complete loss for words or the fear he’d snap and get caught in a furious rant, he couldn’t be sure– all he did was bite his lip, breath out a wrathful breath, pivot on his heel and walk away. 

The vice president didn’t cross his path for a week after that. 

He could be seen in flashes, disappearing behind corners and distinct voice resonating from behind doors. Karl has laid his eyes upon him and studied his features, listened to his voice, locked arms and laughed with him countless times. He could identify him from a mile away, could immediately tell when something was _wrong._

So when he walked past the president’s office and heard shouts and slams, when he saw his friend step out of the room and adjust his sleeves (no, he pulled them down, despite preferring to have his sleeves rolled up at nearly all times), his worst suspicions were confirmed. 

The man released a shuddering breath as he began down the hall, making it known to Karl that his wings were _still_ tucked away– 

Karl could leave this unchecked under the excuse that Quackity just wanted some time to himself, sure. But now every promise to give him space goes out the window; he’d make it known he cares, even if he didn’t have the power to do anything. 

“Quackity!” Karl called, once again having to speed up to catch up. Habitually he went for an arm, only for his friend to flinch back like it hurt. “Uh, sorry, I just wanted to talk to you.” 

“Oh,” A hint of realization flashed in Quackity’s eyes, and he relaxed when he recognized who it was. “Hi, Karl. What did you want to say? I have a meeting really soon.” 

“I don’t know, we just haven’t talked in, like, a week.” Neither man could bring themself to make eye contact as they stumbled through what could barely be called a _conversation._ “How are you? Are you okay?”

“Of course! What would make you think I’m not okay?” Quackity’s response came just a little too quickly for comfort. 

“Oh, well, your–” Karl shoved his hands in his hoodie pocket. He didn’t finish the sentence, but it was obvious he didn’t need to. “They’re still tucked away. Isn’t that bad?”

Only a meagerly lift of the vice president’s shoulders was the response he received. “Schlatt said I look better. More professional. He says you can focus on my face better without them distracting you.” 

“Schlatt’s fucking dumb, then. They’re not a distraction, never have been.” The words stumbled out before they could be stopped, like they had a mind of their own, 

“Don’t say that about him.”

“No, that’s not what I meant, Q,” Karl sputtered in a flimsy attempt to backtrack. Habitually he pulled his hands out of his pocket and reached for his friend’s hand because he _knew_ touch always helped to ground him when he got defensive like this– “I just wanted to make sure you’re not–”

Yet his hand never made contact; there was the taps of footsteps backing away and a bruised wrist being pulled back.

(When the fuck did it get bruised? How did he miss that?)

“What? Do you think I can’t handle it? You think I’m not strong enough to fucking handle it?”

The words hung in the tense atmosphere, grasping at straws for a response. The response took a very long time to come. 

“I just want to make sure you’re not putting yourself in danger. That’s it.” 

The glare his old friend pointed at him had been carved and sharpened with time. “I can do that. Myself.” 

They _both_ despised the silence that followed, the complete loss of of words that failed to soften the blow. It filled the room, that deafening silence– created a sort of uncrossable ridge between the two despite the mere inches between them– until that gap was filled with the sound of departing shoes growing farther and farther away until they could no longer be he heard tapping on tile. 

* * *

_“So…”_ Tubbo drawled out as he slid up to two of the three newlyweds, fresh off the dance floor and still containing too much energy. “How about this party, huh?” 

“You planned half of this, Tubbo,” Quackity pulled his arm from its spot around Karl to sip his drink, “What do _you_ think of it?” 

“It’s _your_ wedding, gentlemen, which means my opinion is irrelevant. Ask some of the other _guests,_ however…” The boy motioned toward the rest of the room, where Sapnap threw his head back laughing at something Punz had just said; Puffy could be spotted discreetly gossipping with Bad while Sam utilized his four arms to bring them back some punch; Ranboo stood very still on the flashing dance floor, just a few feet removed from a stumbling Skeppy. “...And they’ll tell you it’s fantastic! The work of a truly _professional_ event planner!” 

“No executions this time?” Quackity raised an eyebrow and snickered into his cup. 

“Quackity!” Tubbo stepped back like he’d been shot, dramatically feigned shock with a hand on his chest, ”I’m insulted you’d even ask that!” 

“Your record for good festivals is 0-2, Tubbo.” 

“Good thing this isn’t a festival, bitch!” 

“Sure as hell it isn’t, baby!” The two broke into a fit of laughter, sealed off with a fist bump. 

“Why is Skeppy acting… like that?” Karl asked when the moment fizzled out, failing to restrain a small giggle. “Is he…?” 

“Drunk? He better fucking not be,” Interjected Tubbo, already cracking his knuckles and jokingly polishing off his horns, promptly electing to ignore the way Q’s wings noticeably stiffened, “I made all the guests pinky promise to follow the no-alcohol rule.” 

Without another word, the boy determinedly stormed off; yet instead of going to Skeppy, he went straight over to Bad. The two held a brief discussion, which ended with Tubbo banging on the table laughing and Bad heading off on a mission to collect his friend. 

With no less pep in his step, Tubbo returned to Karl and Quackity. “False alarm, guys! Turns out the lights just made him dizzy, which means that everyone followed the single rule we have. Though I’d love to stay and celebrate yet another victory for the world’s greatest wedding planner, I need to teach my beloved how to dance!”

Before he could receive a response or explain who his “beloved” was, Karl and Quackity watched the teen speedwalk over to Ranboo (who visibly relaxed at Tubbo’s presence), attempt to be spun around in a twirl, only for one of his horns to get stuck on the other’s custom-made suit. He took it in stride, buckling over in laughter. 

It was then Tubbo’s hand rose to his jacket pocket, and he pulled a buzzing communicator out of it. Quickly he excused himself from the dance floor and made his way to the edge of the room to answer it. 

For a brief moment he held the confidence he’d had all night– world's greatest event planner and all– until whoever was on the other end of the line said a certain few words, an incorrect number of syllables and sounds, and that confidence crumbled down like the walls of an old, fallen country. 

Karl’s focus had shifted to someone else; his eyes were fixated on the stupid dance Puffy had begun (which wasn’t even on beat with the music, by the way), but quickly he was snapped back to reality by the soft blow of air caused by Quackity flaring his wings. 

“What is it?” It took no hesitation for Karl to ask that; he knew his fiancé, knew what those pale golden wings did when something was wrong. “Are you okay?” 

Wordlessly and without bothering to look, Quackity passed over his drink. “I’ll be right back. Don’t follow me.” Without another word Quackity sped off; Karl caught only a glimpse of the figure he followed into the hallway. 

“Tubbo!” Quackity called, unaware of how much his voice would echo against the pristine tile. Quietly, he repeated, “Tubbo, what happened?” 

The one he was looking for was far down the long hall, nearing the outside entrances. He looked back to see who’d tried to get his attention, then caught sight of telltale golden wings and sped up. 

The night was warm in Kinoko Kingdom. Thankfully, it was nothing like Snowchester; there was no constant layer of snow on the ground, no visible exhales, no rosy cheeks or biting chill. There was only gently swaying trees and wondrously colorful flowers sprinkled amongst the fields. 

Other than the soft breeze and the rustle of the dancing tallgrass, the night was mostly silent– which made the distant, panicked breaths all the louder. 

It would be more effective to follow the voice silently than call out again; that would risk the boy running away, and _that_ would be bad in a number of ways. Luckily, it was an easy task; Tubbo had only ran past a single hill before deciding to stop and lean against a tall mushroom-tree. 

Tubbo stood there with one hand on his chest and the other in a fist at his side, except it wasn’t just a fist– no, he was scratching his palm, a discreet nervous habit he’d picked up while under Schlatt but hasn’t done since the bastard died, so whatever had him spooked had to be bad. 

So Quackity waited at the top of the hill for a short moment before asking, ever so quietly, “Hey. What’s wrong?” 

Clearly Tubbo hadn’t realized he’d been followed all the way out here, because when his puffy eyes caught sight of the other man, he mumbled a curse and began to wipe away any tears that had fallen. “Get back to the party, Q.” 

“No can do. Not until you tell me what’s got you so upset.” 

“It’ll only bring down your mood,” Tubbo protested with a sniffle. 

“I doubt it,” Quackity shrugged, a small smile growing at the corners of his mouth, “This has been one of the best days of my life. So hit me.” 

“No,” There was more of a bite in the boy’s voice now, but it was still shallow and fragile. “Just go back to the party and forget this happened, okay?” 

“Fat fuckin’ chance, bud,” The hill was still damp with recent rain and thus a bitch to walk down smoothly, but Quackity managed. “It seems to be a real problem if it’s set you off so much, so come on. What the fuck is it?” 

There was a long pause until finally Tubbo sighed. “They held a revival today, for Wilbur.”

“They _what?_ Who?” 

“Tommy, and Phil, and Eret, and... Fundy, I think. I told Tommy that he shouldn’t have held it today. I _told him_ he should’ve come to your wedding instead, but you know how he is when he puts his mind to something. He _insisted_ today was a special day for a revival and he wouldn’t take no for an answer. I fucking hate how stubborn he can be sometimes!” Tubbo gasped, taken aback like he’d been shocked by his own statement. “Oh, fuck, I didn’t mean that. I’m sorry, Q. I should have told you about all this, I should have stopped it.”

“It’s fine, Tubbo, really.” Quackity raised a comforting hand to the boy’s shoulder, which he could see worked to calm him down only a tiny bit, even when his palms were red with irritation by now. “You just wanted me to have a nice day. I get it. If lying to me is what’s got you upset, it’s fine. I forgive you. We can deal with a revived Wilbur after the world’s greatest party.” 

“That’s not what I care about!” Tubbo snapped, putting his head down to wipe away the single tear that found freedom. “They didn’t bring Wilbur back, they brought back Schlatt instead!” 

The world didn’t stop spinning, as much as one would expect it to. Time didn’t freeze, gravity didn’t glitch, the sun didn’t explode in some beautiful, grand supernova– there were only trees gently swaying, tallgrass dancing, in the soft breeze. The night didn’t care to bend to that shattering truth; it remained tranquil, like nothing ever happened. 

“They– what? Did they actually?” 

Tubbo only nodded, a horrible confirmation of that. “Tommy said– they tried to revive Wilbur, they did everything right, but Wilbur doesn’t want to come back. So the universe traded one soul for another like it didn’t matter.” 

That last bit sounded too poetic for Tommy to have said, but that fact went ignored. The two stood still for a very long moment, silenced by a complete loss for words. 

“We should get back to the party,” Quackity mumbled, trying hard to keep his voice from becoming void of all but a little bit of its usual spark. 

“I’m sorry for ruining your night,” Tubbo hoisted himself off the tall mushroom he’d been leaning on. “I shouldn’t have told you. I’m sorry.” 

“Don’t be. I’m glad I found out from you before anyone else. And, listen to me–” Quackity purposely tore his eyes away from the boy’s horns, scolded himself for the beginning to recognize them as anyone other than _Tubbo’s._

(“Wear them with _pride,_ boy!” the drunkard had cheered in one of his very first days in office, “Look at you! You’re finally becoming a man, _just like me!”_

Quackity may have been there when he said it, but he’d be lying if he claimed to even fathom the thick sense of _dread_ that had bloomed in that boy’s chest; in the moment he could see him shrivel down the littlest bit– not enough for the president to notice– he watched him scratch his own palms frantically, had witnessed the way he speedwalked out of the room, tears in his eyes very nearly free.

And Quackity had been there, had followed the sixteen-year-old to his office, offered a (not yet) barren, stubby wing as comfort when the tears fell. He’d seen it when the horns first began to grow in during the First War. Back then he actually _did_ wear the stubby little things with pride, rarely covering them with his revolutionary hat even though it would have been easy to.

Tubbo didn’t know what they meant back then. And as Quackity overheard the panicked breaths of horror coming from the White House bathroom because they wouldn’t magically stop growing; and seen for himself the red, puffy eyes that turned up at cabinet meetings; and witnessed the boy anxiously scratch his palm raw when the bastard who _dared_ call himself that boy’s father would see the horns and _congratulate_ him for it; and pretended not to see when the boy put a hat on whenever he snuck off so many times a week– 

Well, Quackity couldn’t help but thought it may have been better if Tubbo never found out what they meant at all.)

“–You have to promise me something; promise me you won’t let that bastard convince you that you’re anything like him.” The look he received was one of a child trying his best to believe that, but not quite getting there. “We’re not gonna let him ruin our lives a second time, ‘kay?” 

“Promise?”

”Promise.”

Despite the incredulity that shined in his eyes, the child nodded. “Can we… go back to the party now?”

Quackity had taken Tubbo under his wing a long time ago– both figuratively and literally– and he’d silently made a promise to protect this kid. He’d be damned if he broke his shining streak now. 

So Quackity nodded. He placed a gentle, shaking hand on his shoulder and nodded. It didn’t matter if his confident front was fragile, it was _there._

It didn’t matter if he appeared _off_ for the rest of the night, or if his wings drooped down to the floor subconsciously. It didn’t matter if he waved the final guest a farewell and made a beeline for his own home. It didn’t matter if his partners had noticed _something_ was wrong and subsequently asked him about it, like any decent people would.

(“You wrapped yourself in your wings, Q,” Karl had noted, “It’s literally your go-to coping mechanism.” 

Quackity only cursed at him in response, securing his beanie in its place over his eyes. It wasn’t genuine, just a force of habit to get angry and defensive, and they all knew that. Touch no longer comforted him the way it used to; all there was to do was wait an hour or two for him to move past the initial snappiness.) 

So no, it didn’t fucking _matter_ if he wept that night until he had a headache, told them the terrible truth and heard their very much _not_ empty threats– threats to kill the motherfucker again, make him wish he stayed dead.

It didn’t matter if he couldn’t really sleep that night, not from nightmares but from sheer restlessness and dread. He can barely bring himself to remember all those nights– it’s not like he ever _wants to–_ but he certainly can’t forget them. 

None of that really mattered, Quackity thought, as he and Tubbo reached the top of the crater they once governed, a protective wing wrapped around the boy and even more protective husbands trailing a small distance behind. If nothing else, Tubbo should have an ally in this world. When his wings were clipped– his home destroyed, fucking unrecognizable– he needed someone to catch him when he fell out of the sky. It made the landing less painful; _that_ is what truly mattered. 

Distant yells resonated against the debris, not enough to disturb the morning air but certainly out of place. It was calm but for the hollow, maybe even imaginary, howls of a dead man. 

“Hey,” came a soft yet stern voice; Sapnap. “Remember, I’m here, ‘kay? Say the word and you’ll have that prick’s head.” 

Apprehensively, Quackity gazed down. He remembers what this place used to be, who used to dominate it; he remembers the horns atop that crazy man’s head and says: “I don’t want his head.” 

* * *

“There you are, Songbird!” The voice calls, raspy and low. Quackity can practically _see_ his husbands clench their fists at that awful nickname, but he chooses to ignore that. “Oh, and you brought my son!” 

Quackity lets go of Tubbo and takes a few steps forward, blocking the boy from view with his wing. “I wanted to see if they were fucking with me when they said you were back. Looks like they weren’t.” 

(“You’re as ugly as ever,” he wishes to say; but it isn’t worth it, he decides. He doesn’t wish to unleash the wrath of a man who has quite literally come back from hell. Not in front of the kid, at least.)

“I guess you’re stupid as ever if you thought you could get rid of me,” Schlatt chuckles. He doesn’t deem a response worthy, so he continues with barely a pause, “Oh, and what the _fuck_ have you done to Manberg? It’s a goddamn crater.” 

“It was blown up. Twice, actually.” 

“It was _blown up?_ God, I knew you couldn’t be in charge of this place.” A few uneasy steps forward, like a child learning how to walk, and there’s barely two feet of space between the two. “Look at it! And look at _you,_ those… _things_ all out on display and shit.” 

Quackity flared his wings out of pure _spite,_ his expression still fraught with wariness. “Well, you know. The TNT got rid of what you left behind. It’s all gone, Schlatt.” 

(Except for the memories. Maybe the memories still linger, maybe they always will.)

“Hm,” the taller man hummed, taking aim for a wrist that didn’t pull away in time– “And what about my son? I saw you bring him here.” 

“He’s–” The words died in his throat. The grip on his wrist was a familiar pressure; a long-lost acquaintance finally returning unexpectedly and making him wince.

“I’m right here,” the child interjected, gently putting down the stiff golden wing separating him from his–

“My son!” Schlatt threw his hands in the air. They immediately found a spot on Tubbo’s shoulders and shook, harder than necessary. “Oh, your horns have grown in wonderfully! Jeez, I swear you resemble me more and more each day.” 

Quackity would be lying if he said he heard Tubbo’s response (if he had any). All he knew for a fleeting moment was the shooting pain in his wrist that made him turn away and shrink into himself. This was stupid, he thought to himself, it wasn’t the worst he’s ever felt, why the hell does it hurt so fucking bad?

From a distance he could see his husbands getting closer, and oh _fuck_ is there a sword in Sapnap’s hand? Yeah, there definitely is, and his hand is getting all red like it does when he gets angry, and oh _fuck_ hopefully he doesn’t set something on fire–

“Get away from them,” Sapnap advanced, pointing the edge of the sword to the dead man’s throat.

But the dead man only snorted. “Who are you again?” 

“Get away from both of them,” he said once more, voice totally void of anything but anger. “Who I am isn’t really your concern.” 

“What, are you trying to separate me from–” Schlatt swayed on his feet, “From my fiancé and my son?” 

“Oh, you’re Quackity’s fiancé?” Sapnap feigned a look of shock. One that turned into a shit-eating grin. “Huh. I’m his husband. Get fucked.” 

“Oh, come on, Songbird,” Schlatt complained, “Are you really so codependent that you needed someone to replace me? A new low, even for you.” 

“I’m not the only _upgrade,”_ A dramatic eye roll and a playful swing of a worn sword accompanied the emphasis on that last word. “No, totally not. Him over there, too! Hey, Karl!”

Karl peered out from behind Quackity’s wing and only said three words: “Get fucked, Schlatt!” 

“Yeah, what he said!” Declared another voice, one that no one instantly recognized as… Tubbo’s?

A pointed, practiced, _sharp_ glare was all Schlatt could shoot back with a blade to his neck. He could only watch on as his old business-partner-turned-ex-fiancé and son were led away from him, for what he actually acknowledged now to be the last time. 

They did not grant him the luxury of a last glance. 

“Q? Hey, talk to me. Gimme something,” Karl ushered after witnessing how his husband immediately fell to his knees, wings habitually tightening around himself, once they were out of sight. “How did he hurt you?” 

“It just– shit,” Quackity muttered, words laced with agony. “My wrist fucking _hurts,_ what the hell.” 

“Can I see it?” Karl received a head shaking _no_ and backed off. 

“I’m sorry, Q,” Tubbo sighed. “I should’ve known this was a bad idea.”

“Shut the fuck up, Tubbo. It’s not your fault he’s an asshole,” Quackity muttered with another wince. “He didn’t deserve to see the light of day again.” 

“Q, listen to me. Last night, you made me a promise,” Tubbo said, his eyes shining with an optimism that was enviable. “You said we wouldn’t let him ruin our lives a second time. You’re keeping that promise, right?” 

Quackity gazed up at the boy, locked eyes and made a decision. “Yeah. I can do that.” 

**Author's Note:**

> wedding planner tubbo my beloved. if u follow my tumblr (coveredinsun, same user as here) you’ve seen me rave about him because I Care Him.
> 
> anyways i literally dont know where this idea came from. hope you enjoyed nearly 5k words of me DESPISING c!schlatt >:]


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